


Bits and Pieces

by MissMaudlin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Multi, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabbie drabbles.</p><p>(Ratings vary)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #1

Abbie doesn’t cry. She doesn’t cry at movies, she doesn’t cry when she reads, she doesn’t cry when she gets angry, she doesn’t cry when she gets sad. Her friends would sob at the endings of movies and shows and Abbie was always the one to get the box of tissues for them, her eyes dry.

Abbie stopped crying a long time ago.

Oh, she’s shed a tear here and there. She can count on one hand how often that has happened. She shed a few tears when she hugged her sister—her sister, who got herself locked up to protect her. But Jenny had taken the fall and needed to cry; it wasn’t Abbie’s turn to cry. Abbie had to be the big sister she (thought) she had always been. 

But now—there’s an unbearable pressure mounting in her chest, expanding and expanding until she feels like she can’t breathe. It creeps up her throat into her mouth and then her nose and then suddenly her eyes and there are tears. Tears rolling down her face, and they won’t stop. They are endless and they are terrifying.

And it’s all because of this man: this man who drives her insane and who makes rash decisions and who’s both volatile and brilliant and _stupid._ He’s so stupid. She hates him so much—hates that he makes her feel, and makes her want things, and makes her cry. 

“Abbie…”

She swipes the tears off her cheeks with rough motions before she pushes a finger into Crane’s chest. “No, you listen to me. If you get yourself killed, I will find you and haunt your ass for eternity, do you hear me?” 

He smiles. It’s sad—an acknowledgement of his mortality. An acknowledgement that whatever they have—this thing, this link, their _threads entwining_ , as he likes to call it—could end. “I believe you would do that, yes,” he says quietly. He then brushes the tears from her cheek with his long fingers, and Abbie allows herself to close her eyes for a moment, allows herself to weaken. “I will, however, endeavor to return. To you, Abbie.”

Abbie counts this as the fifth time he’s said her first name. She’s secreted each breach of propriety in her mind, like glittering treasures. And it makes her cry harder. Sobs ricochet through her body, and she has to turn away. He lets her cry by herself for a moment, as she sobs great, heaving sobs that wrack her small frame.

But she collects herself. She bites the inside of her cheek. She turns back to him. “Just come back, okay?”

And then she reaches around him and hugs him as hard as she can, pressing her face against his chest. He rests his chin on her head, and in that moment, no one has a reason to cry anymore. 


	2. #2

Abbie makes Crane coffee on Sundays. On Sundays she turns on the espresso machine she never uses and makes him a cappuccino, with more foam than coffee. Abbie prefers tea for herself: jasmine tea, usually, but sometimes just black tea. She likes it steaming hot and without fuss, rather like how she likes her life.

They sit in companionable silence on Sunday mornings as Crane drinks his cappuccino, Abbie her tea, the sunlight shining through the open window and crisscrossing the table in rays. It’s the beginning of spring, and the trees are unfurling outside, fat blossoms opening up as each day passes. It smells like spring, Abbie thinks as she sips her tea.

Crane is reading the newspaper - probably one of five people in Sleepy Hollow who still subscribes to and actually reads the newspaper - harrumphing at one story while mumbling at another. They can never really sit in silence, as Crane tends to comment on anything and everything. But Abbie doesn’t mind listening, not really.

When Abbie gets up to get another cup of hot water and a tea bag, she returns to find Crane with foam on his upper lip and completely unaware of the absurd picture he makes. She remembers the first time he did this, when they were still circling each other, wondering, hoping, yet all the while terrified of what was to come. She bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing now and sets her cup on the table.

"Crane," she says.

He looks up, his eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

Abbie just smiles and pushes his newspaper down before leaning toward him - with him sitting and her standing, they are almost the same height - and she kisses him. He seems startled at first but doesn’t pull away. In fact, Abbie finds herself pulled into his lap before she realizes what’s happening. He tastes like cappuccino and foam and Crane and warmth and everything she’d ever really wanted. His hands trail up to cradle her face: gently, like she’s precious, like she’s crucial for his very being.

When they pull away, Abbie swipes the remaining bit of foam from Crane’s mustache. She licks her thumb and smiles as Crane watches her.

"Abbie—"

Abbie looks off at the trees outside; she notices that a few of the blossoms are already open and dancing in the wind. Within a week or two they’ll all be open to the sunlight.

"Hmm?"

"How long…?"

Abbie glances back at him. “Long enough.” She shrugs and smiles a little. “Sorry it took me so long.”

Crane just links their hands together: his fingers long, hers small, both of their hands calloused and full of their history, apart and together. “Grace Abigail Mills,” he says simply, “For you, I would wait an eternity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposted from Tumblr.


	3. #3

As Crane prepares the tea, he clenches his hands around the kettle so tightly he feels the metal bite into his palm. He flips the dial on the gas oven and sees his hands shaking—just barely, but still trembling. He forces himself not to think about what happened today. If he thinks about it he’ll disintegrate and suddenly, he’s terrified that he won’t be able to put himself back together again.

Abbie sits at the kitchen table, her hair slightly curly and wavy about her face. He watched earlier as she wiped the trails of mascara—women of this day owned as many cosmetics as they did in his century—from below her eyelids, making a joke about knowing she should’ve worn waterproof makeup. “If I’d known I would’ve been going for a swim,” Abbie said in her driest tone, “I wouldn’t have worn my cheapest mascara.”

Crane tried to laugh but found that his voice couldn’t make the requisite sound. So he just nodded and stared out of the car window as Abbie drove him to the cabin. But after she stopped the car, he found himself not wanting to leave her. So he invited her in for a cup of tea. Something banal, harmless, simple.

Crane needs simple right now. As he glances at Abbie, she smiles a little and he remembers pulling her from the depths of the river created in the middle of the library, her body lifeless and cold. Suddenly, the kettle whistles, its high-pitched screech filling the silent cabin and breaking through Crane’s thoughts.

He notices that his hands barely tremble as he hands Abbie her cup of tea. She inhales the steam before drinking, sighing. “Thanks, Crane,” she says, tucking a wayward piece of hair behind her ear. “I needed this.”

Crane sips the tea but doesn’t taste it. He just feels the burn of the hot water down his throat and it sits in his belly, leaden and heavy. He sets his cup down, the tea sloshing a little onto his hand. “Lieutenant, what happened today—”

Abbie holds up a hand. “It wasn’t your fault, Crane. We didn’t exactly have time to enroll you in a CPR class.” Finishing the last of her tea, she adds, “For once I was glad that Hawley was around. At least we know he can be useful for something.”

There is, Crane thinks, nothing quite so devastating as watching your partner—maybe even life partner, despite what he told Caroline, since he and Abbie would be together until they defeated Moloch—lie on the floor of a library, not breathing, drowned, _dead_ , and having no means to help her. He can’t remember what he said to her then, but he remembers what he thought: _Lieutenant, you can’t leave me. Abbie, Abbie—you can’t leave me. I need you._

Abbie taps her fingers against the wood of the kitchen table, drumming lightly. “You know, I could’ve sworn you called me ‘Abbie’ again,” she says. She stops drumming, riveted suddenly, her mind clearly going backwards. “But it’s like remembering a dream: I can feel it in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite catch it.” She looks up at Crane. “You know what I mean?”

He remembers now that he called her Abbie. He tries not to cross that line too often because he knows that every time he does, he’s getting closer to the inevitable. Crane doesn’t know what that will be yet. But calling her Lieutenant or Miss Mills allows him distance—distance from something he recognizes but cannot name. Not yet.

And all he can say in reply is, “Yes, Lieutenant: I know of what you speak.”

It’s 1:00 AM when Abbie leaves. Crane stands to walk her to her car, opens the driver’s door as he always does. But before Abbie can climb inside, Crane reaches for her wrist and encircles her waist with his other arm and pulls her into a hug. She’s so tiny in his arms that he fears he’ll crush her, but she’s strong, is his Lieutenant. She survived today and by God, he’ll make certain she survives the morrow.

Abbie is startled at first, but leans into his hug within moments. “I’m all right, Crane,” she says softly into his shoulder. “I’m not going to die that easily.”

Crane just hugs her harder, his fingers gripping her jacket, his chin resting on top of her head. After the mobile doctors left, he wanted to hug her like this with such an acuteness that he forced himself to put his hands behind his back. He knew that if he touched her that he would fall apart, clutching her to his chest, checking to make certain she was alive and whole as he fought back tears.

"Abbie," he says, and he can feel Abbie shift in surprise at his using her first name. "I never want to experience such terror again. I thought you gone from this world."

Abbie sighs and then pulls away a moment later. Crane steps back, allowing her to look up at him. She smiles, her eyes sad in the light illuminating from the open car door. Crane sees her open her mouth slightly before closing it again, clearly unsure of what to say. Instead, she shrugs a little as she gets inside the car. “I’ll get you signed up for CPR classes tomorrow, how about that?”

Crane doesn’t reply. He merely closes the car door for her and watches her drive off into the night, watching as her headlights drift into the horizon until they shrink and, finally, disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposted from Tumblr (again). I think we all needed a hug after almost drowning scene, geez.


	4. #4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: character death.

The first month, Abbie visits his grave every evening on her way home from work. She doesn’t take flowers—just herself, sometimes August, and simply stands and thinks, wondering what could have been, what should have been, what might have been.

The second month, she doesn’t go every day. But when she does, she cries so bitterly that her throat becomes sore and her eyes bloodshot. She cleans off the gravestone and sobs until the emotions drain out and she can go home, smile for August, act like it’s okay, they’ll be fine. They will survive this.

By the sixth month, she only visits on the weekends. It’s autumn now, the leaves beginning to fall, bright orange and red and yellow. August giggles as leaves rain down on them—he’s always giggling, and Abbie knows that the sound has kept her going these six months. He reminds her of Ichabod so much sometimes, though: his stubbornness, how clever he is, how he seems to remember things she wouldn’t expect a toddler to remember. He’s already tall like his father. She wonders if he’ll be as tall as Ichabod. And when she realizes she can’t remember Ichabod’s exact height—6’1”? or was he 6’2”?—she bites her lip and forces herself not to cry, not today, she can’t break down anymore.

They married on an autumn day three years ago, August born a year later. It was hurried and messy and ridiculous and they married at the courthouse and Abbie just laughed when Ichabod couldn’t find his tie anywhere, and that later she spilled champagne on her dress, but it didn’t matter because they didn’t know if they even had a future in the coming months but they had each other. The apocalypse made them rash but it also made them realize what they truly wanted.

And they were happy, as much as they could be. August was an accident, but a welcome one—they’d hoped to wait for children after they’d defeated Moloch and the world could be safe for a child. But Abbie couldn’t regret their impulsiveness when the doctor laid August in her arms that first time, his eyes bright, his mouth a tiny rosebud.

_Abbie, I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you. Take care of our son._

Ichabod had never talked about dying, except for that one day when he told her he was afraid his days were numbered, that he wasn’t meant to live beyond the seven years of tribulation. His face had been resolute but devastated; Abbie yelled at him, told him he couldn’t talk about things like that, and what had he always said to her: _I’ll come back for you. I’ll always be here for you and our son._ And so he just smiled and pulled her close, and she rested her head on his heart and listened to it thump, the sound a soothing rhythm.

Ichabod died in winter, weeks later, when the snow was heavy and thick. It fell around them, silent, still, cold, numbing. But they won—they won, and it was over, Moloch was defeated, and Abbie had to pick up the pieces of her life once again. And she did it because August deserved it.

Abbie watches the sun set now, August playing at her feet, until it starts to get chilly. Resting her hand on the gravestone, she traces the letters of Ichabod’s name— _devoted husband and father and soldier_ written underneath—before she wipes her eyes, picks up their son, and takes him home.


	5. #5

They’d started the tradition months earlier, after a particularly long day of fighting some swamp demon with a predilection for being as disgusting as humanly possible. Abbie had driven Crane back to the cabin, and she’d been covered in…something. Demon blood? Demon goo? She’d really not wanted to know. And Crane had looked her over, raised an eyebrow, and asked if she’d like to clean up before heading home?

He looked just as disgusting, his hair matted with the black stuff, some of it smeared across his cheek. Abbie just rolled her eyes and switched off the ignition. “I’ll clean up and order us Chinese food,” she said. When Crane raised another eyebrow, she added, “You’ll like it, I promise.”

She ordered her favorite—orange chicken—with plenty of eggrolls and crab rangoon and fried rice, with some Szechuan chicken with extra heat for Crane. He liked his food spicy, she discovered recently, to the point that his eyes often watered.

That night, though, the first time they’d eaten Chinese food together, silence enveloped them; Crane usually talked, but not that night. They were tired, worn-down, sore. Abbie had taken a hit to her calf, the bruise already spreading across her skin, while Crane had had the demon’s claws raked down his ribs, leaving nasty gashes across his torso.

They ate with single-minded purpose, simply enjoying the hot food, the knowledge that they’d lived another day, that the bruises and the gashes would heal with time. But really, Abbie reflected, there was nothing quite like Chinese food on a Friday night to make you feel a little better, to make the knowledge of an impending apocalypse somewhat bearable.

When they were done, Crane leaned back on the couch, sighing. “You were correct, Lieutenant,” he said. “That was excellent indeed.”

"Chinese food is always a good choice for days like this," Abbie replied. She leaned back against the couch as well, her eyes closing despite her determination to keep them open. The warmth of the fire in front of her coupled with the still lingering scent of Corbin in the cushions of the couch—cigars and pine—lulled her into a drowsy stupor.

When she awoke hours later, dawn not yet arrived, she found herself laid out on the couch, a blanket tucked around her and her boots placed on the floor next to her. Not wanting to think—about any of this—she curled her hand in the blanket and went back to sleep for a few more hours.

Tonight, though, Abbie looked at the menu for Chinese—she didn’t even know why, as she ordered the same thing every time—and then tossed the menu across the table. It was another Friday night, and she was sitting here, doing research—alone.

Crane had left with Katrina earlier, his hand placed protectively on his wife’s side, his movements ever so gentle with her. Abbie sighed and rubbed her face. She felt a headache coming on, thinking about everything. About Crane, about Henry, about Katrina, about all of them together and their seemingly unshakeable faith in an innate goodness in people that Abbie had stop believing in long ago.

Every Friday night they’d gotten Chinese together, she and Crane. It was a silly tradition, she knew. Often Jenny would join them, although sometimes Jenny preferred to be alone. But it was, at least, always she and Crane together. Abbie appreciated his company, his wry sense of humor, his ridiculous anecdotes, although lately their initial camaraderie had shifted into strange territory, a territory where they stood on separate sides, their relationship slowly splintering apart with every passing day.

But on those Chinese food nights, Crane would eat his weight in eggrolls, while Abbie ate more crab rangoon then she’d care to admit, her favorite fried food in the entire world. Once, when the restaurant had sent them only eggrolls and no crab rangoon, Crane, upon seeing Abbie’s disappointment, had driven into town to go pick up some for her. When he’d returned, bag in hand, Abbie had felt stupidly close to tears.

Abbie sighed and closed her laptop. She rifled through the drawer next to her, a variety of menus stacked inside. She pulled out the one on the bottom, a pizza menu. Glancing at it, she realized that someone had circled what they’d wanted to order: Mushroom Supreme with sausage and Canadian bacon. Abbie smiled sadly, realizing that it had been Corbin circling his favorite pizza. She’d forgotten that that had been his favorite and that she’d always wrinkled her nose at the mushrooms dotting his slices, continually declaring that pepperoni was always the best pizza, hands-down.

Picking up her phone, Abbie typed in the number for the pizza place. Thirty minutes later, she sat at her laptop, gazing at the screen, holding a slice of Mushroom Supreme pizza in her hand, wondering how many more Fridays she’d have to endure all by herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I can only write angst lately.


	6. #6

Crane finds Abbie by herself, staring off into the distance, her hair waving gently in the breeze. It’s down her back today, he notices: so often she wears it in a queue—no, ponytail, she would always correct him—but today it’s down and soft and merely highlights the vulnerable curve of her neck, the sweet indentation of her throat.

He clenches his hands and finds himself, for once in his life, at a loss for words. What can he say? How can he explain? And most importantly: how can he ask her to forgive him?

Crane remembers admitting to Abbie so many months past that perhaps, he, not Abraham, had been the truly arrogant one. He hadn’t believed it then, though. He knew he was overly sure in his abilities, desiring praise for his quickness of thought, his ability with languages. But not so arrogant as to render himself blind. The irony, though: he was blind to his own arrogance in thinking he was not, in fact, arrogant.

"Lieutenant," he says, softly, almost hesitantly.

Abbie shifts in her chair. Crane knows that she was aware of his presence all along. She merely refused to countenance it. She sighs before turning her head towards him, ever so slightly. “What, Crane?” Her eyes: her lovely, dark eyes, seem so flat and blank that Crane feels a sudden urge to cry.

He walks toward her and sits in the chair opposite her. It’s a warm spring day, and they sit on Abbie’s porch overlooking her backyard. It’s a trim, green yard, although there are no flowers and just one lone tree in the corner. Abbie once admitted that she wanted to plant flowerbeds someday but simply hadn’t found the time. Crane wants to help her plant those flowers this spring now: bright spots of impatiens, snapdragons towering over the other flowers, perhaps even rosebushes.

But Abbie won’t even look at him fully. He takes her hand but she quickly snatches it back. Her back rigid, she turns away from him and speaks off into the distance. “I’m not in the mood,” she says as explanation. “If you have something to say, say it.”

What can he say? He fell victim to his own hubris, his own belief in his own power to save his son, turned his back on his fellow Witness when she needed him to stay focused. He told her she could never replace his wife, that she did not have a right to order him about when his family was at stake, that she was heartless to expect him to give up on Henry like she wanted, and what did she know about family, she who’d abandoned her own sister? When she physically recoiled at his words, he could see her expression shutter, her lip curling ever so slightly in disdain. And then all she said was, “Then I will fight this war on my own.” And she left, never looking back.

And now his wife sided with the enemy, his son having helped raise the third Horseman, and Moloch closer with every passing day. And the Witnesses splintered by his arrogance and pride and cruel words, his belief that he could affect such a monumental change in Henry simply by force of will.

"I will not attempt to explain myself," Crane begins, his voice halting, quiet, the words tripping off his tongue like pebbles into a pond. "I only want to say that I am sorry: I am sorry for my arrogance, my stupidity, my callous disregard for  _you_ , Abbie—” He stops, tries to regroup. Abbie won’t look at him still, and he accepts this as his punishment: he is unworthy of her rapt attention. “I can merely plead for your forgiveness.”

Abbie breathes in deeply, and then slowly out. She then turns her gaze toward him, and he can see the anger etched into her lovely features. Her voice is sharp but calm when she replies: “That’s all you can do, isn’t it? Plead for me to do something for you. Demand that I do as you say. Accept that you know what is best—”

"Abbie—"

Abbie holds up a hand, her eyes closing for a moment. “Don’t interrupt me,” she says quietly. Opening her eyes, she continues. “You can’t say things like that to me and then come crawling back, not only apologizing but asking for me to forgive you, like I can just wave a magic wand and make it all disappear.” Abbie stands up from her chair suddenly: the movements of her body are jerky as she walks away for a moment. She unclenches and clenches her fists, breathing deeply, and Crane simply sits and waits because he doesn’t know what to say. If he can say anything. If he can do anything that will make her believe in him again.

Abbie looks at him, her face crumpling a little before she gains control of her emotions again. “I can’t just forgive you, Crane. You refused to listen to me, hurt countless people in your blindness, and then had the gall to call me _heartless_ for wanting you to stay on task and then add to that by talking about what I did as a child—”

She stops again and he wants to hold her and make her believe in his sincerity. But she just licks her lips and continues: “And you refused to focus on our mission and instead focused on your family. And on your son—” she points an accusing finger at him “—your son, I’d like to add, who never wanted to be saved. Still doesn’t want to be saved. And newsflash: will never be saved. And most definitely not saved by you.”

Her voice is louder, her tone sharp, and he can see her body shaking. He stands and tries to go to her, but she recoils from his nearness, shrinking away from him. “Please, Lieutenant, Abbie—”

Abbie pushes against him, her hand on his chest a moment before she walks backwards, away from him. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore with you. Leave my house, Crane.” And here Abbie’s voice breaks and Crane sees tears pooling in her eyes before they begin trailing down her face, and he almost falls to his knees, he almost begs and pleads and weeps before her, a supplicant crying out for forgiveness. “I don’t want to see you ever again,” she ends, and she sobs at the end before turning and going into her house.

Crane stands a moment by himself, unable to move, before he eventually sinks down into one of the chairs. His body crumples like tissue paper, and all he can do is remember: his father’s face when he’d told him he wasn’t the son he’d wanted; Katrina’s small smile when she took Abraham’s hand in hers before turning her back on him; Henry, covered in blood, his eyes blank.

And then he realizes with brutal, startling clarity: he is alone. He has no one, and he’s destroyed the only relationship worth keeping—the only person in his life worth his attention, his care, his _love—_ and suddenly it’s so unbearable that his throat closes on a tight sob and he weeps for what seems like hours but could only be minutes before he gets up, his body heavy, and leaves Abbie, certain that he’ll never see her again.


	7. #7

"You don’t have to go."

Crane felt himself wanting to agree, to say yes. What was he doing, dressing in these clothes, awaiting Katrina for a “date”?—a date, why did the modern era have to assign such arbitrary titles to important life events?—and all he truly desired was to stay here. With Miss Mills. Abbie.

Abbie patted his shirtfront with her usual brisk efficiency before looking up at him. Her lids then lowered slightly, her eyelashes dark and long, and Crane found himself licking his lips, his hands twitching at his sides. His gaze moved to the triangle of skin above her shirtfront, a hint of cleavage visible, and he wondered suddenly what she’d taste like there. Looking back up at Abbie, he realized she was looking at him with both interest and, dare he say it, lust—?

"Are you ready?" Katrina asked over his shoulder, her voice soft, almost whisper-soft, like kitten fur.

Crane turned in a slight jolt. Katrina. Yes, Katrina, who did, he had to admit, look lovely in her dress. Perhaps rather form-fitting for a former Quaker, but the modern world made them all strangers to themselves. “Yes, my love,” he answered, as he always answered, the endearment more of a habit than anything else. His voice cracked slightly, and he coughed to clear his throat.

Katrina tilted her head, assessing him. She then glanced beyond him to Abbie, and her nose wrinkled: only a little, only so much that he’d notice. But he felt it and it made his back stiffen, his shoulders pulled back tightly. “We should depart,” was all she said, her voice a little less soft, with a touch of claws trailing behind her statement.

Crane glanced back at Abbie—he always looked at her, he knew, for guidance, reassurance, and even just to marvel at her existence—and her expression showed nothing. She’d allowed him to see a part of her, but upon Katrina’s arrival, had shuttered herself closed. He found no fault for her for that. But it saddened him nonetheless: this woman who only revealed herself on rare occasions, having to protect herself from Katrina.

No, he realized, to protect herself from him.

Crane turned back to Katrina. She walked toward him before placing a hand on his shoulder: familiarly, like they were truly married. Rather akin to Abbie’s hands on his shirtfront earlier, but when he glanced down to Katrina’s pale hand, her nails perfectly curved white moons, he felt nothing. Nothing beyond a vague displeasure at her presence ruining that moment with Abbie. Katrina, his wife, who had returned to another man and set him free to harm others in an absurd notion to redeem him. This woman who had lied to him about Mary, who had compromised his mission with Abbie since the beginning. This woman, who he didn’t know and most likely never had known.

He shrugged off her touch like he had so many weeks ago. “Katrina,” he said, “I don’t believe I shall accompany you tonight.” When Katrina looked to respond, he added, “But I’m certain if you need another man as your escort, Abraham would be more than willing to fill the position.”

He turned to Abbie, whose eyes had widened in surprise and most likely barely suppressed amusement, and said, “Shall we go, Lieutenant?”

Abbie bit her lip before replying, “Sure, where to?”

"I think I’m in the mood for Chinese." And Abbie laughed as they left the cabin together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written before the finale...heh.


	8. #8

Abbie dreams of his hands: caressing her face, gliding down her arms, gripping her ass. Beautiful hands with neatly filed nails, calluses dotting the palms, invoking the memory of his time in the army. His hands cup her breasts, pluck at her nipples--she moans, bites her lip, tries to stymie the noise. She knows he’s smiling as he moves downward, as his hands part her thighs, and she falls backward, her head hitting the pillow, her toes curling into the sheets as she arches underneath his gorgeous, ridiculous, cruel hands. And before he can kiss her, taste her, Abbie awakens, the dream flitting about the edges of her consciousness as she readies for the day.

She doesn’t plan to tell Crane. Why should she? But when they hear a report of an incubus raging across the town, draining women and men of their very life force, she realizes with disturbing clarity that that was no dream, but a visitation from the monster himself: a monster cloaked as her desire, a desire she’d thought she’d hidden, from both herself and from Crane. She knows, now, that the dream is merely a prelude for an incubus, and that she is its next victim.

Crane’s eyes widen when she tells him, a slight flush brushing across his high cheekbones. A beat of silence hangs between them. Abbie swears his eyes darken. She feels her pulse beating throughout her entire body, heavy, pounding, relentless, as they gaze at each other. But he then he breaks the moment, nods, takes up his gun, and follows her out to destroy the incubus without a word.

It’s late when they return to the cabin, covered in the incubus’s dark, viscous blood. Abbie showers first, then Crane, and it’s 1:00 AM when she’s standing in the kitchen, making tea. Something to distract her, to avoid the conversation they need to have. She wonders if Crane will avoid her now, if he’s embarrassed, and her heart plummets. Did she imagine his interest? Yes, she avoided talking about her feelings, but merely because she feared ruining their friendship, not because she believed he didn’t reciprocate.

She stands, gazing out the window into the dark, and then she feels Crane stand behind her, his beautiful, ridiculous, cruel hands resting on her hips, and his breath just stirs her hair as he whispers in her ear, “Lieutenant, you lovely, impossible creature.” His voice is low, almost guttural, and Abbie can only shudder as he adds, “If you wanted me to fuck you, you should have told me.” And he kisses her throat as her heart pounds and her body heats and everything becomes distilled within that single devastating moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposted from Tumblr with slight edits.


	9. #9

Nimble fingers, skimming from ankle to a firmly muscled calf. Goosebumps raised, a shiver along the spine.

“Did you really,” Abbie says, slightly breathless, “put me on top of the washing machine for this?”

Circling, tracing a small scar on a shin, skin heating. “Only because you’re so small in stature, Lieutenant.”

She scoots closer, wraps a leg around his lean hips. His hand darts upward, underneath the flimsy material of her transparent babydoll, bunching the fabric until it reveals the strap of her thong. “I’m sorry my being short is so inconvenient for you, you giant stringbean.” 

She’s embarrassed by how breathy she sounds, until those nimble fingers begin to stroke the sensitive skin of her hipbone, the crease of her thigh, and she can’t remember why she felt embarrassed in the first place.

“I didn’t say it was inconvenient. Merely stating a fact.” Callused fingers petting the inside of a thigh, back and forth, nerves raised to a fever pitch. 

She strains against him. “Will you stop _teasing_ me?” She wishes she could pull his hair–now, it’s too short–but she plucks at his shirt like a cat instead, rather desperately. 

He skims his hand upward, across her belly, in the curve of her waist, his gaze watching his own movements, before he lifts his head. They watch each other. The hand moves, now a palm against the warm skin of her lower back. Leaning forward, he murmurs, “If you didn’t want to be teased, perhaps you shouldn’t have worn something so tantalizing.” 

And he leans down, kissing the slope of her neck to her shoulder, before biting gently, and she can only shudder and surrender.


End file.
